


Whipped cream in a can, modern underwear, and, weirdly, HYDRA

by Cerise_anouk



Series: There's Egg Shell in My Omelet [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Bucky & Darcy on the road, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Thanksgiving, cooking in motion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-08-31 12:50:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8579248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerise_anouk/pseuds/Cerise_anouk
Summary: Bucky and Darcy celebrate Thanksgiving together for the first time while on the road in America. Same universe as You Gotta Break Some Eggs.Something fluffy.Bucky-centricThis happened when you were blinking. A glimpse between glimpses?





	

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't a sequel or a prequel, but happens somewhere in chapter 2 of U.G.B.S.E. 
> 
> on a side note, did anyone else see the new-ish Drunk History episode where Kat D. plays a one-eared pirate?

The smell of roasting turkey permeates the cramped interior of the Winnebago (overpowering its general smell of old funk) as Bucky navigates the stubby gas-guzzler along California’s famed 101; the highway that meanders drunkenly along the coastline of the long as fuck state.

“Left!” Bucky yells over his shoulder into the back, never taking his eyes off the narrow road rolling out in front of him. Death gripping the comically large steering wheel with both hands, the tendons in his flesh arm strain while the servo’s in his bionic one whir, as the hulking metal box groans and leans into the turn. The sound of clanking and sliding thrift store crockery and cookware is loud behind him. The RV’s suspension was not made for agility; in the 70’s they built the damn things like tanks, and the lazily snaking highway is putting the old girl (and all of the Winter Soldier’s tactical driving skills) to the test.

Why couldn’t they be in a _flat_ state when they had realized Thanksgiving was days away? They’d been strolling through a random grocery store snagging supplies when Darcy’d noticed the half-priced pyramids of insta-stuffing, canned yams, pumpkin pie filling and a disturbing amount of butterball turkeys overflowing the center aisle freezer bins, and it had clicked. The fact that it would be their first Thanksgiving (together, State side) had instantly made it a Big Deal for both of them as the last one _she’d_ celebrated had been with Jane, and the last one _he’d_ celebrated had been a bleak, depressing affair circa WWII. During their time in Europe it had just been another day on the calendar; another day they were still free. They’d loaded up the cart with the standard holiday fare for two ( she’d had a bitch of a time finding a small-ish turkey and she was like, 60% sure that it was _really_  just a growth-hormoned chicken she'd thunked into the basket) and headed on their merry way.

So here they were; him steering them through the dangerous up and down S-curves, giant ass majestic Redwoods hugging the razor thin shoulder promising an ominous death if he were to go off the edge while she struggled to cook them the Great American Feast a la Darcy in the back.

The road unwinds into one of its rare stretches of straight away and Bucky chances a look into the wide rearview mirror that gives him a broad view of the interior, assessing the damage, of which there is surprisingly little.

The electric roasting oven (that they’d snagged on the way out of town) bungee corded to the narrow Formica table appears to have slid an inch or so but stayed pretty well put, as had the lidded casserole dishes duct taped to the table top around it. Her back pressed up against the thin bathroom wall, Darcy stood clutching a pie for dear life in her mitted hands with a foot braced against the tiny oven door, keeping whatever deliciousness that was finishing up firmly inside. The only casualties this time seemed to be a couple random corn and green bean cans rolling across the thin-carpeted floor and a bag of potato rolls.

The first casualty had been some sort of Jell-O and fruit concoction that had made Darcy gasp in despair, but Bucky was secretly glad he wasn’t going to have to try. That’s when the duct tape had come out. He didn’t even have a clue as to how she’d managed to keep the pot for boiling the mashed potatoes on the stove.

“You good?” he asks, focusing his eyes back to the road.

“Yeah,” comes her distracted reply, the sounds of hurried clanking and clinking echoing up to the front as she too takes advantage of the momentary calm, “Turkey’s got fifteen more minutes to rest, then we can eat,” she informs him.

As luck would have it, in that instant a large sign informing road travelers of a rest area ahead in ten miles pops up in his view; a bright white and blue sore thumb against all the brown and green of the ancient forest.

Right after it is a yellow and black 20 mph corner sign. Underneath _that_ is the caricature of a tipping big rig. Bucky cusses savagely.

“Right!”

* * *

 

 

It’s the best Thanksgiving meal he’s ever had, and tells her so. Darcy is kind of bummed that she’d had to use canned and just add water stuff instead of doing it all from scratch, but he could care less. The two of them, at their tiny table, in their old camper, parked in a deserted rest stop beat out any previous memories of the holiday that he could dredge up. He’s pretty sure he was killing high profile targets for most of them. Something about being with family making them easier to find and pick off.

Darcy asks him what he’s thankful for.

He thinks about it for a minute. He shrugs and says, “For getting to have this, with you.”

Later that night as they lay in a naked tangle, Darcy’s soft, even breaths puffing against his armpit, he mentally adds to that list.

 He’s thankful for whip cream in a can, modern underwear, and, weirdly, HYDRA. Because if not for the evil organization there’d be no Bucky Barnes, seventy years past his expiration date. There’d be no Darcy Lewis, captive of a random minimally manned base in the middle of BFN Morocco. No Bucky meeting no Darcy means no Bucky _and_ Darcy. No random dance parties. No unopenable jars for him to conquer. No off-key duets. No whispers in the dark, soft kisses, fingers stroking through hair, the feel of warm soft skin or inside jokes.

There’d be no Darcy to curl around at night, he thinks, brushing his toes against her smaller foot. No Darcy ambushing him in the shower to take pictures. No Darcy re-teaching him to enjoy the world, not just survive it. No Darcy who loves the Bucky he _is_ , not the Bucky he _was_ or _could be_.

So yeah, he’s thankful for HYDRA.

 

But, like, just the teeny, tiny little part that brought him and Darcy together.

* * *

 The HYDRA salvage team makes its way stealthily through the dense forest. The base had sent out a distress signal a week ago, before going silent. When the officers in command of the location had not appeared, the team had been dispatched to find out just what was left of it.

As they enter the clearing, all that's standing of the former strong hold is a sliver of concrete wall with the word 'Thanks' carved into it.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> -It's illegal to cook in an RV while driving down the road, in USA


End file.
